


Dogboy

by gazastripping



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 2000s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, Extremely Gay On Main, M/M, Slight A/B/O Dynamic, Stoned Levi, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-05-09 03:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazastripping/pseuds/gazastripping
Summary: Levi’s life insurance skyrockets after he suffers a blow of radiation at work. So what do you do with gradually collapsing intestines, instead of paying for therapy? You buy a fucking house in some new, dumb, empty suburb, you get some salsa dip and kick your feet up, ass spread for death to come.On Monday night, 22nd of October, 2000, an enormous dog slams through Levi’s kitchen screen door and breaks his fine bone China tea set. It’s still not clear what changed his life—the discovery that werewolves do exist, or the grand finale of his fucking China.





	1. Log No. 1: Bone Premise

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry but I marathoned Twilight and it’s clear as the May sky Stephanie Meyer only created Jacob for us, furries
> 
> Find me as [@gazastrippin](https://gazastrippin.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!
> 
> Listen to the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/hentaivert/playlist/1dsBLdW2j21WKPraYPScl4?si=cH_wn0FUSEufXJot9hebgg) I made for this that has way too many songs with "dog" in the title!

Everyone already knows how I feel about stockpiling iodide pills, so here goes another fresh take: I’m slowly, painfully, irreversibly dying.

That’s it, sob story over. We move on.

When cells get exposed to radiation, components of DNA and critical proteins within the cell get all jazzed up. DNA strands break and all your proteins go *NSYNC “Bye Bye Bye”. Last month I found out I was complimentary sterile and my hair, my only magnum opus, has been falling out in chunks. I wear a hat to hide most of it, but even my face has taken on the saint crusade of telling everyone my days here are numbered.

I graduated from Yale. I studied nuclear physics for roughly nine years. And now, the one thing I devoted my life to is killing me.

Do I mind?

No.

This is fucking _amazing_.

Cue “Hound Dog” by Elvis Presley. X-Men came out this July, Kylie Minogue won’t stop fucking playing on the radio, and I smoke weed on the down low _and_ high because it’s the only thing that is keeping the looming crisis at bay. I dance in my brand new marble-coated kitchen, a luxury I never ought to have before. Now that my insurance covers chemotherapy, I can ditch the chemo to have good things before I rot. I’m going to die anyway. Look, I even bought a record player. I bought a flower print couch. And I bought a tea set, I had it shipped from China, and it’s probably my most prized belonging.

Edging on 30 and being a stone-cut gay man who never grew past 5’3”, I took most of my gay agenda out when Freddie Mercury blew up. What a fucking icon. I think he was integral for my sexual awakening. I leaned towards women during high school, but River Phoenix and his as equally attractive brother Joaquin made me realize some things about myself.

When a number of my friends came out after our post-graduation get-together in the early ’90s, I first panicked and then went ahead and got drunk on Christmas, on my 21st birthday. Bars were finally legal! And that night I realized I had completely mistaken Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway To Heaven” for some love ballad, when really, it was the process of crawling up my dorm staircase wasted on gin & tonic.

I smoked a gram some minutes ago. Not for a second did I consider I won’t be able to make dinner this stoned.

I think you can really feel yourself coming to an end when you begin to linger on your college years. College was the worst for me. I was in a band called Fender Blues, and not because we played blues music, but because we were the five gay boys at school that did underage drinking at a junior party and ultimately decided to form a band.

Fender Blues has a grand history. We had quite a bit of a buzz about us at the time we finally played something outside of a basement. There was a bar called Mongolia that no one ever went to because people believed the head waitress had a knife behind her garter belt. A freshman told me this. Up to this day, I don’t know how credible a freshman can be. I think it was some other good local band headlining upstairs and we were headlining downstairs. We got there at about 2 PM and did our soundcheck by 4 PM.

Suddenly the door bursts open and these two guys burst in—one of them is in _latex_ —and they both start kissing in our room and screaming, in between kisses, how good rock music is.

We are taken aback. We are listening to Hamilton Leithauser. I’m in the corner reading Franz Kafka. Our bassist mentions that we’re just about to have some sandwiches, and the guy in latex happily snatches a grilled cheese from his hand. Our guitarist, the pacifist of the century, embarks them both on a conversation about how, if “slutting it up” is their thing, then more power to them, but that they’ve probably got more to offer than that. Our drummer is, as you’d expect, stifled in horror as we blow his opportunity of a third threesome that month.

I have to stop thinking about college. But beforehand—our keyboard player slammed the synthesizer with his dick and people loved it.

God. I’m so stoned. At least I don’t feel like throwing up the entirety of my bacon and craft beer unlike most days. It’s likely bacon and craft beer has nothing to do with the vomiting, it’s probably the radiation that’s chewing me up from the inside.

Bacon has gotten so big. The bacon industry has won me over.

I very poorly switch the Elvis vinyl to Bowie’s 1974 “Diamond Dogs” recording. This came out just three years after I was born, it’s baffling—it’s baffling that I’m alive at the same time David Bowie is making music and having sex.

My stomach, instead of casually revolting against me, creates a weird sound that I take is asking for food. So I decide I’ll whip up some salad and go get feta cheese from the fridge. Because being stoned disorientates and I can’t find my sharp knife, I take the butter knife next to the butter tray and haphazardly start slicing the feta.

“Dressed like a priest you was, Todd Browning’s freak you was,” I mouth along the lyrics, my head bobs along the funky guitar, and everything is _good_.

Behind me comes a World War II-esque crash.

For a split second I think, _fuck, I forgot about the chicken tendies I was microwaving and they went straight through my fucking roof,_ but my new apartment doesn’t even house one. I whip around with the butter knife in my outstretched arm and sit in my knees a little.

“I don’t have any money and I’m dying!” I immediately scream. The search for any possible intruder at eye-level comes through clean, and I look down.

My toppled kitchen cabinet is _breathing_. Around scattered are shards of white.

Oh, please, not the China tea set. Not _my_ China tea set. What kind of horrendous, _inhuman—_

I freeze when, over the joyful tunes of Bowie, comes some kind of truly inhuman growling, coughing, some snarls, the kind of jazz I used to hear from dying deer when my father took me hunting back in 1983. Because I’m unable to tell if the liquid coming from underneath the cabinet, on my tiled floor, is blood, I take a step closer.

“Hello?” I whip the butter knife in front of me. _“Hello?”_

Receiving no reply makes me queasy. The second “hello” sounds absolutely mortified and shaky, so I try again. I make a kissy sound in case a deer really just came in crashing through my kitchen door and fucked my business up.

The kissy sound shuts it. The cabinet stops going up and down. It looks like I really am going to have to drag a dead animal out on my driveway and pretend it’s roadkill, completely overlooking the fact that this is a suburb and people likely drive _no_ miles per hour.

Calmer now that the animal (fuck, it’s _really_ large) is dead, I walk up to the cabinet and, butter knife still in hand, try lifting it back up. It’s positive that my China has passed in tragic circumstance. Sort of breaks my heart to see a whole handful of money shattered on the floor.

I put weight in my ankles and start tilting the whole oak wood thing, when _whatever it is_ underneath comes back for its final dying breath and jolts right up. The swinging door of the cabinet swings right into my fucking face. I feel heat rush to my nose, so the fear and panging pain makes me retreat back to the kitchen island. Holding my hand by my left nostril, I finally get to see what malformed, sand-colored…hairy… _mass_ bit its way here.

Wolf is the first thing that comes to mind. But as it shakily stands on _two legs_ — _oh my fucking god!_ —I quickly reel back my whole horror cinema knowledge and gasp in such an ugly, gay manner, that even Prince would cover his ears.

That’s a fucking werewolf. That’s, like, a _fucking_ werewolf. And it’s not some cute, fuzzy German Shepherd-looking thing on two legs that asks for dinner leftovers—I mean, this atrocious stuff is standing at nine feet, not quite hairless, _huge_ —huge, like, towering above me for a good portion. Energy seems to surge through its surprisingly human muscles in shuddering waves, it exerts the kind of heat a bad crockpot does, smells like a wet dog and pus.

I knew I shouldn’t have smoked that much weed.

I can’t be _this_ fucking stoned.

“Good boy…” I say out of immediate reflex, holding the butter knife in front of my fanny pack. In case this grotesque thing gives me rabies in the dick, it’s gonna have to swallow my butter knife and the feta cheese that covers it in chunks.

The feral face seems to have some understanding. It still snarls right at me, but it’s not launching, so, I mean, maybe it knows werewolves are killed from silver bullets as much as they are from radiation. The jaw is dished out, thick skin stretched taut over the boney carcass and layer of rich muscle, the sinew of its neck twitching.

“Look, I’m gonna put the knife down.” As if this fucking shit would do any harm to that monstrous Dalmatian. “I’m gonna put it down so I don’t hurt you.”

The werewolf coughs. It sounds like _laughter_ for a split second.

I stand still, mouth gaping. “How fucking sentient are you?”

It growls.

“A whole sentence there,” I comment and turn around to resume slicing my feta. I can’t tell if I’ve accepted my death to the point I can have small talk with werewolves, or if I’m just really, really, stoned. “Look, doggy. You destroyed my tea set that I had shipped from China, gave me a nosebleed and made me doubt the palpability of things. Since you’re alive and well, head on out—“

A heavy thud behind me kind of gives way Wolverine just fell. I turn around, and, yeah, there it is, on my beautiful, tiled kitchen floor, just like I first saw it. It took some of my yellow tapestry along. But now that it’s not covered by the kitchen cabinet, I notice blood oozing from the awkwardly elongated left thigh. The leg itself ends in a pretty cute paw, somewhat the size of my head.

The werewolf wails in a long, broken howl, and tries clawing its way to the swindling frame of my kitchen door. It seems completely immobile at this point.

I drop the knife and walk up to the thing. “Shush.” I kneel, feeling heat radiate right through my cutoff jean shorts. It whines again. “Shut _up_ , don’t howl, you dumb puppy. Wherever you have to be is impossible to reach right now.”

It looks back at me over its shoulder with sad, golden glazed eyes. The pupils are fully dilated. You know what I read in grade school? That your pupils dilate in the dark—but since it’s light in my kitchen—they also dilate when you see something you like.

I don’t know werewolf anatomy, but the body seems entirely masculine. Its shoulders are wide, chest narrows by the waist, _it has a bellybutton_ —and presuming these things serve any reproductive purpose, there has to be some weird dog dick right between it’s hairy legs. I resist the temptation to look in fear of getting cloved in two.

I’m not trying to be gay for a werewolf.

“So, you have, like, a name?” I casually ask, leaning closer to the bleeding thigh. “Beowulf? Larentia, the mother of Remus and Romulus? Logan?”

It grumbles a laugh again, like before. I can’t believe werewolves get my humor.

“I’m gonna touch your leg. Try not to rip my head off, or something.” Instinctively, my eyes travel to his arms. Human, but muscular to the point it would take rigorous years worth of weightlifting for me to achieve. They end in claws. Completely human hands crowned with dull, hard nails.

I press slightly on a bump that I assume is muscle, but it turns out to be some odd bubble of pus. The werewolf shatters a tile with his pain-filled jolt. What leaks out of the wound is a mix of blood and weird, dark mucus.

“Ew,” is all I say. “Well, I can put some disinfectant on that. Yeah?”

I assume the growl to be positive.

“Great. Be right back.”

The previous owner of the house left their first aid kit in the upper shelf of the guest bathroom. It’s so embarrassing that I need a bench to reach such a vital thing.

I come back to see Air Bud stretched on his back, hands behind his head. That looks really fucking wrong, is what I personally think. His mannerisms are human and it makes everything extremely confusing. This is like some cross-species kink zine.

“Comfy?” I ask as I kneel again, keeping eye contact—because, yeah, in grade school, I read that keeping eye contact with animals means respect and authority in the animal kingdom.

He nods.

I look back down at the leg. Now that one thigh isn’t completely covering his crotch area, I think I can very clearly spot something that looks like limp canine dick. Holy shit, I really am serving life in hell, but it’s a _decent_ dick. This is so fucking weird. This is _so_ fucking _weird!_

“You know, I’m completely stoned,” I awkwardly try, dripping the disinfectant onto the wound. “So if I wake up tomorrow and come downstairs to see a bag of potatoes wrapped up in gauze, I’ll know I have to quit smoking weed.”

I can’t tell if he’s frowning because the bubbling wound bites, or if he noticed me staring.

“Yeah. I smoke weed because I’m dying. You’re not, like, ancient, right? You know what radiation is, I’m sure.” I watch the foamy stuff slowly simmer on his meaty flesh. “Bad accident at work. Radiation poisoning. I had surgery for the resulting colon cancer, but I’ve got a bad feeling they didn’t get all of it.”

He mewls in this weird, doggerel voice.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re sorry. Everyone is,” I grumble. “I like dying. I don’t have some righteous passion to live for. Life isn’t Star Trek. I’m not Luke Skywalker who tries avenging his father by killing his father. My name’s Levi, by the way.”

I almost fly back when the idiot dog stretches his claw in a preposterously human manner, and almost as clearly as anyone else would (maybe a little…teethier), says: “Zeke.”

My heart is just about taking a vacation. I shake his burning hot hand. “I thought you couldn’t speak?”

He shakes his head and points at the malformed jaw. Then motions at his throat.

“This mouth is for nom-noms,” I conclude. “Got it.”

So, Zeke. While wrapping his trembling thigh with gauze, I wonder if he’s turning human soon. These monstrous things surely don’t transform back with jeans and a yellow shirt on. I don’t know how werewolves work, but that would be outstandingly awkward—ass out, dick out, and me, pretending to be a nurse between his damn legs.

What else is awkward is that he’s staring at me the whole time. Growling at slight pressure, sure, but the pair of almost fluorescent, yellow eyes is just about piercing my shit right now. It’s extremely hard not to stare back. I know tigers have paralyzing roars, so maybe wolves and their kind have the same kind of effect with stares. Either way, I’m fucked.

I finish the job with a knot above Zeke’s knee.

“Okay, you’re good, Leslie.” I give his calf a pat.

That earns a horrible reaction.

He sits up with no muscle strain, like a fucking seesaw swing, and licks my face. The thick, stretchy saliva goes up in my bleeding nose, so I let the shocked inhale go through my mouth—but my lips are also covered in this stuff, and I end up spitting all around the kitchen.

Zeke roars in his sense of laughter and sits on the floor like a dumb chicken. His long arms fold loosely in front of him.

I wipe my left eye to properly look at him. “You are _disgusting_ and I want you gone before midnight.”

One of his small ears folds, and he tilts his head.

“No puppy eyes.”

Zeke’s snot shivers. It’s healthily shiny and light brown.

“No,” I say. “I’m sleeping on the couch. You sleep outside or get lost.”

I almost fall to the ground when he points his nuzzle at the patched-up thigh and lies down exactly like a dog would. To avoid any argument I was about to come up with, he closes his eyes and folds his ears.

A tail finally comes into sight. It’s long, maybe the length of my legs, not too fluffy. Definitely not horror-movie fluffy. Despite being so muscular and meaty, Zeke’s spine is clearly visible when his back is arched like that. Each vertebra sticks out and forms something like a mountain riff.

I stand in the middle of the kitchen and take a good look around. My kitchen looks terrible. There is drying blood on my tiles, a few of them shattered with a brand new cobweb texture, the cabinet is completely broken along with all my dishes, there is a bloody, (in the weirdest way possible) _attractive_ werewolf snuggled up next to the trash bin, draught is swindling past my ears because of the destroyed screen door, and I literally can’t piece anything together at this point. I decide making the fucking salad must be an evil omen, so I leave the pack of feta next to Zeke and go crash on the couch. After tossing and turning, I head back to the kitchen and take some ground beef out of the fridge, which I also leave on the floor. That should do.

Zeke is snoring when I go upstairs.

I wake up late next morning— _afternoon_ —with a throbbing headache, sore stomach and weird taste in my mouth. While peeing, I notice my hands are covered in stale blood and almost let one of those gay screams escape. Turns out I’d forgotten all about last night. I mean, I was still in complete denial, even after having stood in the kitchen for a good ten minutes and screaming at all the blood that didn’t seem like _that_ much yesterday, but it _was_ that much, and everything that happened last night actually happened.

Zeke, the ominous thing, was gone. But there was a squiggly note on my marbled kitchen counter, created with the help of ketchup.

“THANKS,” it said, in big, chunky letters.


	2. Log No. 2: Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I won't get into heaven, but thanks for asking
> 
> Find me as [@gazastrippin](https://gazastrippin.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!
> 
> Listen to the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/hentaivert/playlist/1dsBLdW2j21WKPraYPScl4?si=cH_wn0FUSEufXJot9hebgg) I made for this!

I’ve been scrubbing that fucking ketchup all day, ladies and gentlemen.

I won’t lie, I cried over my broken China set while sweeping up the shards, but my mind was mostly set on Zeke and who he was, and what kind of Victorian era fiction he came from. I can’t, I emphasize, _cannot_ stop thinking about him. He was nine feet tall, people.

He was _nine_ feet and had a dick, that thing.

And so, as I lounge on my porch and smoke a fat one, I think about my new werewolf friend. I never thought the day would come when this kind of thought would just linger in my head, so I’m either fuck delirious or weed hallucinating. That thing was fucking looming over me, its head was a whiff away from hitting the ceiling—and I’ve got one real fucking high ceiling. The legs were dog-like from feet to knees. Strong. Strained from the power they contain.

A waist like no late night porno could offer.

What a fucking chest.

The _neck._

That thing _licked_ me.

I shake my head and blow the smoke over my left shoulder. If there’s one thing in life my father told me I’m sure is right: wild animals don’t return any favors. They feel as if there is no debt between a life saved and a life gone. Their only means is to feed and reproduce. There is a thin life between wolf and man, if you think about it, because mankind follows the same scenario—we just got run over by capitalism midway, so we fill the void between food and sex with completely trivial things.

My only neighbor is a horrible, letdown trailer across the street. It’s light beige with visible adjustments: a little staircase to the elevated door, a make-do porch constructed of planks various in shape, size and color, and quite an ugly shed next to it. When I moved in, I wondered whether I should pull the stupid newlywed stunt and go over with a tray of cookies. But then I thought, no, that’s what they have to do. Welcome, new neighbor, here is custard pie I just microwaved in my trailer and bought at Walmart for $3.

And literally by telepathy aid, the door of the trailer is kicked open by someone who I thought manifested only in my most vile sexual fantasies.

This—this magnificent _bear,_ this overpowered _alpha_ , oh my _god_ , his whole body weight makes the stupid staircase _creak_ as he steps down onto his unkempt lawn in boxer shorts and a wife beater. He better not have a wife—I cross myself as I think of this—unless _I_ am the wife.

His body hair is as light as his sandy, middle part hair, and in the sunrays that fall, his legs look like they are wrapped in luminous, golden light. He’s fit as fuck _and_ wearing _round glasses._ Is he…a hot geek? _I’m_ a hot geek. What are hot geeks into? Star Trek? Reciting Back To The Future? Me too.

The shorts he's wearing are sizes too small, and I almost fall off my chair trying to get a better view of his lower body _everything._ And—yes, of course, like I absolutely called, he's hung. Please, pick me up and destroy my asshole _immediately_ before I die of organ failure.

I speedily pull at my joint and push my fanny pack aside to check if my dick hasn’t exploded. It hasn’t, thank god, but it sure has went from silly putty to a diamond mine.

I put my feet up on a cardboard box still there from moving and watch the statue of David scratch his calf and look around. When he finally notices me, I really hold back from waving, but the reaction isn’t what I’d hoped for.

He whips around and walks back inside the trailer. And slams the door, ladies and gentlemen, he _slams_ the door so hard his potted petunias drop from below the laced curtain windows.

I sit there, offended. I just got completely antagonized.

I spend the rest of the day gloomily checking up on the trailer through my kitchen window.

The following noon, my ritual hasn’t changed. I sit outside on my porch, think about my favorite completely fuckable werewolf and smoke weed. This time I’ve thought ahead: if I see the hot neighbor, I’ll scream. I’ll be like, _hey, come over some time! My name is Levi. Do you like custard pie? I can bottom if you want me to._ It’s very unlikely for this to work, but since I’m dying anyway, I have nothing to lose. I already lost my China and the ability to make babies; the last you could take from me is my weed.

And it happens. He steps outside again, this time shirtless (please, god, spare me), but looks straight at me the first thing he does. And I die a little inside, for I have become the center of attention of someone this perpetually attractive.

I wave, blunt in hand. “Hey!”

He salutes back without saying anything and goes to the shed. Oh my god, he’s probably European, and you know how it is with Europeans: _gay, gay, gay,_ it rings in my little ears.

Out of the shed he pulls a huge, outdated lawn mower and I settle comfier in my lounge chair for the fattest ass seen on man. It’s just unspeakable of how fantastic his buns are, you hear me? Someone took my porno magazines and pulled a Frankenstein with all the hot men in them. I like meat, and god finally shone his light on me, is all I’m gonna say.

But as he primes the mower and walks around it, I notice a nasty gash over the side of his thigh where his tight children's section shorts don't reach. The injury looks like it should cause a lot of pain, but he doesn't seem to even pay any attention to it.

I pull at my joint and hold my fanny pack over my erection. I'm glad I can still get hard. I don't care much about my impotence, but redefining the great value of being able to pop one has been one of the best things that have happened to me.

Watching someone mow their lawn has never been this entertaining. The porch is shaded so I don't sweat like I'm Hades' personal assistant, but my hilariously attractive neighbor is working up a shiny layer on his chest. It only adds to the situation, in my opinion. I normally prefer clean over dirty, but if we're talking about the sex I'd be willing to have with this man, yes. Just— _yes._

He stops mowing at one point to go get a drink. The drink turns out to be just bottled water, so my fatalistically gay intentions get the best of me, and I run inside the house to get him some ice cold lemonade. Because I'm dying for interaction, I also go out of my way and slice lime, sugar up the rim of the glass and add about a shot's amount of rum without measuring any. This has to earn me some dicking. I don’t make rum cocktails for people every day.

On my way out, I peek in the mirror and stop. Wow. I am extremely ugly, but it's fine. The fact that my sense of humor is great usually outweighs my weird face. You can turn to my ex lovers for good feedback on sex, ask my college roommate about all the fantastic head I gave, and I've been told various times that my ass looks great in blue jeans—and just overall. So I don't even fret or linger in front of the mirror. Sometimes, if you really dedicate yourself to it, you can get the straightest of men to fuck you. Yeah, it feels devastating afterwards, but since I found out I'm dying, I don't even care anymore.

So I walk out there, holding two glasses of this weird cocktail that hopefully sparks some mutual craving. The burnt out joint is tucked in my beanie. Mystery man is back to mowing, but he sees me coming over and stops.

“Mowing the lawn on the first day it hits over a hundred degrees must be delightful,” I say, marching across the street. “I brought you a drink, neighbor. I mean, I was waiting for you to bring me apple pie since I just moved in, but it's more of a staple for me to just get drunk with every new person I meet.”

He smiles—his teeth are white and pointy—and scratches his beard. “That's a first. Well—thank you. I'm not supposed to drink this week, but something tells me you won't take “no” for an answer. ”

I hand him the drink. “You already know me better than my family. I'm Levi.”

“Ezekiel.”

“Ezekiel? Glad I'm not the only one whose parents chose their name by just picking out a handful from the Scrabble box.”

Ezekiel laughs again. “Are you a comedian?”

“Am I that funny?”

“Yes, actually. Not to come off rude, I thought you were just a private guy when I saw you move in, so I didn't want to do the whole “hello, neighbor” apple pie thing and barging in.”

I chug a pretty good bit of my cocktail and almost spit it out from how strong it is. Ezekiel, thankfully—or not—wasn't looking, and before I get to warn him that there is _absolutely_ more than a shot's worth of rum in this, he downs it all in one go.

The _entire_ thing.

I stand there, lulling my own full-to-the-brim glass of Devil's drink and stare at him. I wonder, does he have any gag reflex at all?

He turns to me, handing me back the empty glass. “Thank you.”

“Should I get used to the fact that you drink like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just did. I handle alcohol fine, but this is strong as, like, shit.”

Ezekiel shrugs. His body looks slightly more tense than before the drink. “It was alright. Look, Levi…  Could we get together later in the evening? Because I'd love to finally talk, but I have to finish this and get some other work done. I could drop by with the pie—for tradition purpose.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“I'll probably just show up on your porch at one point. Do you have a doorbell?”

 _That's a weird question to ask,_ I think. _But it's usually these weird, awkward big men that have the best dick, so I'm really in no position to say anything._

“Just come in. No knocking.” I hesitate before saying the following: “I'll try to wear clothes, or something.”

The way Ezekiel looks at me after I say that can't possibly be described. His nostrils flare and eyelids droop just the slightest—but to me, who's been studying his immaculate face our whole conversation, the change is obvious. I'm literally dying to think that this means he wants to sleep with me.

“Do try,” he says, significantly more silent than the brash, friendly tone earlier. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Yeah… No problem. See you later, then?”

Ezekiel just nods and makes his way back inside.

Well, fantastic. I walk back to my house across the street, twirling my unfinished joint between my fingers.

First off, I feel like a huge dick for some reason, I don't know why. Did I scare him away? It's not like I was holding his hand, saying: “Oh, you drive a Ford, you gay bitch.” I, personally, think I behaved well, considering how badly I want a dick up my ass. Was it too _obvious_ I wanted a dick up my ass, or should I have made myself completely clear? Why is this so hard? Why am I overthinking? When have I _ever_ spent this much energy trying to get anally destroyed?

Second off: maybe it's not as bad as I think. That nostril flare literally vowed to me that I _will_ get my plugging. And he's coming over tonight. This alone speaks volumes.

On my way back I drop my joint. Midway across the street I realize I sadly value weed too much, so I run back to pick it up.

* * *

I've been sitting in my living room for about four hours now. Shirtless. The clock, as much as I want it to lie, tells me it's 11 PM. 11 PM, for a formal neighbor get-together is an indecent time to bring apple pie. At 11 PM, formal neighbor get-togethers become gangbangs and orgies.

However, exceptions can be made. We got to know each other over alcohol, so that alone makes it informal.

I lay back on my couch and kick my feet up. If he comes over, he comes over and sees me in my vulnerable state, possibly steals my credit card information and money in cash _or_ picks me up and bangs me in his arms. Either is fine. I don't care. It’s been long since anyone has paid this much attention to me, so I’m loving every second of it.

I mixed up another one of those awfully strong cocktails and am currently fighting to get to the bottom of it. I have no idea how Ezekiel did what he did. Maybe it's because he's so big and meaty. I feel like a child next to him. It's almost like high school all over again when I managed to sit on the football captain’s dick halfway.

A round of knocks on my door startles me and I sit up straight. “Hello?”

The door opens and Ezekiel's head pops through the gap. “It's me.”

“Oh, good. Come on in.”

He does. And in his hand he's holding—oh, that is _so_ cute! It's Walmart apple pie!

“You're going to kill me,” he says, “but I don't have a microwave in my trailer, so we'll have to heat this up here.”

“Oh my god! Stop. I don’t have one either.” I get up and walk over to him—dare I remind you, shirtless—to look at the pie. “It's fine, just pop it in the oven.”

“Okay.” Ezekiel turns around and goes to the kitchen. After scanning the cabinets for an oven, he finally locates it next to the dishwasher and then very awkwardly tries to break it open.

“You push the… Yes, behind there. And then the button. No. Yeah,” I instruct as his big hands point at everything for me to confirm. It starts heating up. “Just leave the pie on the counter for now, the oven’s gotta heat up. Want a drink?”

“I really shouldn't…” He begins. “But—sure. For the sake of new friendships.”

“For the sake of new friendships,” I repeat, already mixing one. “Now, I like that. You can sit down wherever you want. Make yourself comfy.”

Ezekiel heads for the couch and stretches his legs once he sits down. “Your house is great.”

“Yeah. It is. I was told people tried renting here before, but it never worked out for some reason.”

“Yeah, people have come and went.”

“So you've been here for a while?”

Ezekiel nods. “A few years. I come and go, just like they did.”

I drop a slice of lime in his drink and carry it to him. “Have you been living in the trailer for all this time?”

“Pretty much… I'm more of a “on the road” kind of guy,” he admits. “I bought my first motorcycle at twenty-one and realized that living detached from society as it is is convenient. Well—for me, at least. The freedom this lifestyle offered was exactly what I wanted. Never been a people guy. Once you learn to overlook some discomfort that comes along with living in a stuffy trailer, you can just about do anything on your own.”

I sit down next to him. “So you just cut loose at twenty-one? Did you ever go to college?”

Ezekiel looks down at his drink. “No. No college. I did live with my family up until I graduated from high school. After that I spent about two years at volunteer service in Southern Africa while working as a drug mob’s gunman at night.”

“No _way,”_ I gasp. “What? Have you ever been shot?”

“Several times. But it felt to me I wasn’t doing anyone any honor because of how rightful the volunteer center had made me, and how wrong my gunman position was. They canceled each other out. So, I returned home, where I felt more free.”

“This asks for a toast.” I raise my glass. “To freedom.”

“To freedom.”

This time, it looks like he holds himself back from chugging the whole thing. I, on the contrary, make sure I get buzzed. The sooner, the better. Once I work up the courage to start making out with him, it's all history.

Feeling like some type of 90's pornstar, I slide down lower on the couch so my jeans get to my dick just right. I hope Ezekiel sees this. My stomach is all scarred from surgery, but I’ve still managed to maintain somewhat decent muscle mass from back when I was still technically alive. My pecs are gradually losing definition, so you could say I have tits now. Especially if you grab them real nasty. It’s a soft, small handful.

“What are those?” Ezekiel asks over his drink, pointing vaguely at my stomach.

First, I look at my tits, but then realize his finger is pointed more in the scar direction. “Oh, Ezekiel,” I begin, “are we having a sob story night?”

“We are now.”

“I’m dying from radiation exposure. I’ve had a lot of people digging around there, so to speak. Every single one of these are separate surgeries that allow me to sleep at—oh, _don’t_ make that face, man,” I say when his jaw drops. “I’m always high, so I get to avoid the pain on most days. It was an accident at work.”

“Where did you work?”

“At a nuclear plant,” I say. “It had to happen to someone eventually. I just wish my parents hadn’t spent all that money getting me into Yale.”

“So you went to Yale…” Ezekiel thoughtfully presses his lips against the pearly glass. “Interesting. I never did college, but I know Yale is a prestige one.”

“That didn’t stop me from fucking the President’s son at a Christmas party,” I blurt. “And he was Vice President of Yale’s College Council, too.”

Ezekiel huffs into his drink and sits up straight so he doesn’t get it on my couch.

“It was my birthday!” I jump to defend myself. “I felt entitled and I just love a good pipe. And I was just about to graduate, so don’t touch me.”

I watch him slowly wipe his dense beard and neck. He has the big, veiny hands of a working man, the burnt-shoulder tan of someone who spends most of his life outside, unruly hair, bleached light by the sun and effortless, sinewy muscle mass that no Gold’s Gym membership could ever guarantee. Ezekiel’s skin is velvety where the golden hairs have spared it and radiates a lot of heat.

A... _l_ _ot_ of heat.

“Hey. Are you okay?” I suddenly ask, because he’s holding his left hand to cover his mouth. “If you need to throw up, do it here, it’s okay. I almost threw up on my cousin when she was getting baptized.”

He shakes his head. “I’m alright. Just give me a second.”

I put my cocktail down and reach out to touch his forehead. It’s scolding hot to the touch, without the slightest exaggeration, and I pull my hand away about as quickly as I orgasm.

“You’re _burning_ up! Hold on,” I whisper as I get up and head to the kitchen. “Let me see if I have any ice in the tray.”

Turns out I don’t. But I do have a pack of frozen dumplings, so I get those to Ezekiel and press them against his forehead. He falls back limp on the couch, making me adjust to the motion and rest my knee between his thighs so I can still—hold—the dumplings— _his dick is so hard against my leg_ —

The oven beeps, telling me it’s ready for the pie. But before I even manage to say anything, in one swift motion, Ezekiel takes a hold on my waist and shoves me to the side. I don’t even find the time to gasp as I hit the corner of the couch and almost bounce off on the ground. Eyes wide, I sit up straight, frozen, and watch him.

“Sorry?” I try. “Was that too—”

A guttural grunt interrupts my upcoming rant about the whole dick touching, and my mouth stays open mid-sentence. Ezekiel is _vibrating_ harder than my hand-held hot pink ribbed vibrator.

I slowly get up and back out, holding my hands straight in front of me. “Look… I’m sorry, that was too brave of me, calm down. I’m a man of dick culture. Calm down. I shouldn’t have done that.”

His arms shake intensely. He looks up at me, blue eyes glowing. “Go to another room.”

“But… But this is _my_ house.”

_“Listen to me.”_

I drop the dumplings on the floor and walk backwards until I reach the hallway where the staircase is. With my stupid socks that get even more slippery on wood, I almost fall running upstairs. When I get to my bedroom, I slam the door close and lock it, and consider swallowing the key like everyone does in the toons.

Was it really the knee-and-dick action? What did I _do?!_ I don’t usually earn this kind of animalistic reaction after touching people's’ genitals, and that wasn’t even direct contact. Oh my _god._ I fucked it up, huh. It's always great finding out having a plug in my ass the whole day has been a waste.

I slide down, back against the door, and bury my fingers under my beanie. My roots are all sweaty from being stressed out.

Something loud thuds downstairs. My head jolts back up straight.

Heavy footsteps follow.

It’s not that I never believed in horror fiction, but I’ve managed to tell myself that the werewolf in my house was a hallucination. It is in no technical way possible werewolves exist. Spiderman is fake. Things like that just _don’t_ happen. But the last time I smoked weed was the afternoon, and I’m sober now, if you don’t count the cocktail I devoured to be able to ask Ezekiel if he wants to sleep with me. If I’m sober, and if the werewolf was really a hallucination or a wet dream, I wouldn’t be hearing such heavy steps coming up the stairs.

“Ezekiel?” I shout, hoping he hears me as the steps close in. “That better be you. You know, there was this incident a few—”

I hear gurgling from the other side of the door. My heartbeat completely ceases.

“Hi, doggy,” I whisper, eyes about the size of the wheels of an outback truck.

I feel the werewolf press his snoot against the door. It pushes forward for an inch or two, but stays caught on the lock. He sneezes, nose still against the door, but pulls back. The door moves back, as well.

“That’s lovely,” I say, sitting closer to the left side of the door to peek through the gap. “That’s just lovely… That’s fantastic.”

He presses his nose against the very same gap I'm at. I feel his harsh, hot breath, the growling deep in his throat, and the smell of a wet dog right in front of me.

“I’m not letting you in,” I say. “My hot neighbor downstairs is dying, you gotta go home. Pick a different day. My schedule is free. Does Monday work?”

Zeke grunts.  

“No, no, no. You messed up my kitchen, honey.”

A hard shove hits me through the door. I turn around and sit on my knees, holding the door handle up. Several multiple shoves follow; as if he’s trying to get in by force.

“Mutt— _shit!_ This is no—way—to start— _conversation!”_ I yell with each shove. “Zeke, stop! You should’ve eaten me when you still could! This door was _three hundred—”_

The hinges partly come loose and I almost hit my head on the doorknob as I crawl backwards on my ass, away from the intruder.

Eerily, Zeke slides his muzzle inside my room, sniffing the air.

“You _broke_ my door! _Again!”_ I shout in a high-pitched voice. “This is the second door you’ve broken in my house, Zeke! Friendships can’t be all taking and no giving!”

I have his attention now. He slowly crawls—not walks, _crawls_ —towards me where I’m lying, pointy ears back tight against his head. The room is dark, but the golden coils around his irises serve as light. Both of Zeke’s eyes are transfixed on me as he slowly makes his way to where I am.

“If you’re going to eat me,” I begin, holding a shaky hand on top of my fanny pack, “don’t eat my dick. It’s not good. It’s awful, in fact, and it’s been— _Zeke...”_

We are about face level now. I’m only leaning back on my elbows while he hovers over me like some big, hairy omen, radiating heat and angry energy. His mouth, previously closed, now falls open as he sticks his tongue out. Like dogs: to cool down. So now he huffs his dog breath into my face. Some of his saliva dribbles down on my cheek, some gets on my neck; some leaks in my eye, causing the same burning feeling as semen does.

“Okay…” I try to breathe as evenly as I can. “This is weird.”

He grunts, but it’s impossible to figure whether he agrees or not. His mouth falls shut again, and he proceeds to smell my beanie. And from the beanie, it heads downtown.

I get a cold, wet nose pressed against my cheek, down my jaw, in both my ears. When he gets to the neck, he starts trembling, which I thought was bad as it is, but then he tilts his head sideways and starts _rubbing_ his neck against mine. I would pay it no mind, you know, whatever. I've had my tongue in an anus before. However, Zeke weighs about a few hundred pounds, and he’s not being mindful that I weigh about a hundred and twenty.

As the rubbing goes on, he starts heaving more and more, and I just lie there like any teenage girl having sex at prom who isn't sure whether she's supposed to _feel_ something, or if sex really is just what it _is_ right there. Is this _werewolf sex?_ Is he having _sex_ with me, is that what this is? What function does that enormous dick offer, in that case? Is it a fucking antenna? I'm just about _dying_ to know.

“Zeke,” I say over his gargling, “this is not working for me. This is barely working for anyone, as far as I know.”

He snorts, or whatever the hell that was, and sniffs my face.

“Yes,” I continue. _“Not_ satisfied with this situation. This face: angry Levi. Angry. Crying. Suffocating.”

As he lifts up from me to give me some air, I touch around my chest to feel whether all my ribs are safe and sound, and pat up my fanny pack. It completely fucks me up. “Oh. God, wow, this is embarrassing. My dick is hard.”

I already regretted saying that before I even said it. His pupils go full-blown to the point his eyes are barely any yellow now, and he leans back down over me, long tongue caking saliva on my chest. I'm entirely on my back now, succumbed to fate's dirty intentions. If god believes a werewolf fucking me is the right thing to do, so be it. But bear in mind that, after all is done, I will be capable of shitting out _barrels._

Zeke leans down and _licks_ my _nipple_.

I look at him in shock. “They didn't teach this about wolves in high school.”

He pays no clear mind to what I'm saying and keeps pressing his cold nose against my skin in various places on my body. When he gets to my belly button, my stomach shudders—and not very voluntarily.

“Don't,” I silently say.

But he does. He shoves his nose right onto my erection and I almost begin levitating. It's weird feeling something so hot through jeans. My dick might as well get cooked alive and come out as a fucking cherry strudel.

Because he's taken a more animalistic way of moving around today, I assumed he lost that human-like mobility in his hands; but I'm quickly proven wrong when I feel something sharp awkwardly try to zip down my pants. This is _beyond_ me. The fact that even a werewolf wants to see my dick has to be Grammy-worthy.

Wait.

No, wait. _Wait_ —Ezekiel is _still downstairs._

“Oh, hold up, hold up, hold up,” I whisper to my protesting werewolf as I push him back away with my feet, “there is someone awfully hot downstairs that I had a disagreement with and I have to see if he's alive.”

Zeke whines in a very sharp pitch in what I first think is jealousy, or whatever, but then he starts backing off. His head is low and his back is hunched, both legs trembling. I seize the opportunity and switch on the light by my nightstand.

He blinks. It looks like he hates it. I, however, get a better look at what just tried to mate me—my hot, fuzzy, sand-colored—

I stop that thought and rewind it.

Hot, fuzzy, sand-colored.

Rewind.

 _Hot, fuzzy, sand-colored. You could say the same to describe Ezekiel._ And doesn't Zeke sound an _awful_ lot like Ezekiel, anyway? And that gash on the leg? What about that same gash on the same leg?

I crouch to see it from where I'm sitting, but it looks like Zeke knows _exactly_ what I'm doing as he backs off to the door.

“Oh, no, you piece of shit!" I scramble to my feet and jolt after him. "You better come the fuck back, you apple-pie loving fucking _dick!"_

Zeke leaves my staircase ruined with his claws he digs into my expensive parquet as he runs down through the kitchen where the oven has long overheated, _right_ through the film I put in to replace my kitchen door that was _once still there._

I follow him through the broken film and see him run around the corner of my house. Because of how stiff his movements are getting, it looks like he's going back to normal—to _Ezekiel,_ or whatever. It's already so dark out that I can barely tell where Zeke is, up until silent, meaty slaps on the asphalt tell me he's not that big canine anymore. My stamina is absolutely horrid, so I have to slow down when I get to my porch and completely stop in the middle of the street.

“Zeke!” I yell after him, huffing, as he disappears into his trailer butt-naked. “I didn't study in Yale for this!”

“Go home!” He yells from the only open window.

“Bitch, I just wanna _talk!”_

“It's too dangerous right now!”

I do a big wheeze and put my hands on my knees. This is more physical activity than I've done in a few years total. Standing straight, I begin walking to his trailer.

“Okay—I _get_ the sentiment,” I say as I get up the little staircase. “But I'm already dead, so you can come put me out of my Missouri. I don't mind. It's fine. I just wished you would cake your dick in my ass first, and stuff.”

“I'm in heat,” he hisses. “I'm in _real_ fucking heat right now. I can't drink alcohol, which you already fed me twice, I can't get aroused, which has also already happened twice, and it's smarter if I don't mate with anything _or_ anyone, you included.”

“And what’s heat?”

He slams the door in my face.

I knock. “Zeke! What’s heat?”

No reply.

“Is it when you really gotta fuck, or something? Because I'm in heat, too. Like, every day of my life. You wouldn't believe how difficult that is. I always, absolutely always need to sit on a dick.”

“This isn't helping,” he murmurs through the door.

“But you know what does help?”

“What?”

“If you do fuck it out," I silently say.


End file.
